texts that change the conscious parameters of literature, both for readers and writers. from a different angle than these, r.p. blackmur adds: 'poetry: [is] ...language so twisted and posed in a form that...it adds to the stock of available reality.' formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to Volodymyr Bilyk at ex.ex.lit@gmail.com for consideration...

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Thursday, December 27, 2018

LumpenSchtickle PantZip, master of keys and ZornSchnuckler the Moon-Man Quasi-Big-Boy, are the chief culprits today spout our supersneaky spies. Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum, how germanesqui is thy root-ball. Only the sweetest peas can roll the distance. Carrots sliced thusly have no hope at all. Rent the attic now, kind servant; the need for quick money is dire. No painting please the thick mud will render it useless. Shrink us immediately, God—the need to appear as small as possible has finally arrived. We’ll risk the last wish my young Genie. Let us enunciate it as clearly as we know; but first we must rub our lamps some you know. Bodily functions yah yah bodily functions, yes we know—there now we are ready. Throw us some towels please first, though. Thanks a lot boy; yah man yo’ welcome. Oh we often tell ourselves this that and the other. God made us suchwise you know. He went to school is over twenty-one and reads and writes quite deftly—he’s been with James Brown and other groups, and he knows. Never trust a fully-grown man. Less so even when they’rer seventy. Feeling wildly sane yet brother? You don’t look so bad. Here’s another.

this is the story of a great couple
a scarface teddy bear and a pacifier
as the cat and the fox from Pinocchio
they were in business selling dreams and adventures

once Poldo fell in a dragon pit
Mama Dragon found him
with his paws in the marmalade
while he was stealing the treasure

he cried and I saved him
in a dark night along with Choocheen
rolling like a mad stone
well seated inside my mouth

then we killed nazi plushes
we fought the doll mafia
we defeated the micromachine army invasion
we saved plush tigers from extinction
and the two fellows Poldo&Choocheen
were decorated
with cotton scars
with silicone glue scars

now they are on leave
drinking and laughing on a shelf
with their cotton and rag pals

they lost all their logos on those journeys
but now they have great stories to tell
and so I have

Wednesday, December 5, 2018

Late, later than late-night gnus gnawing on an open third rail, tongues glued to iron, to steely-eyed turpentine junkies, sniffing the night away and into owed blimp blimey bovinity, cattle swan song harmony etched in faces of the benighted few, the manly-go-lucky, the montage of spinning dog, spun Chihuahua deep in a sonorous desert aria, soliloquizing in feral fast-forward, flipping out to unlimited amity, armchair avidity, ambulatory tepidity, turbid timidity, a dit-dash-dotty doubt line where changelings reconnoiter, impermanence unfounded.

The foisted sentience of all who seize on rolled scribbles must vanquish the entreating treadmill, the furious goalies of nocturnal treatises gone to simultaneous groaning. Anchors sway in freezing rain, snapping purple waves of insurrection doubt from the jurisprudence of shallow pinnacles.

Oh, the humidity, the inanity, a plethora of articles, of of of of of of of of, over and clover a cleaver of cleavage, caloric mistake, ken kin cobbled into tonal sonar antonyms, agreeable forearms; stipulating penguins, penciling in dossiers of dateline dosimeters. To dry land, mythos of Ithacan core, furriers above the cardiac girdle, attending to a mild sleepwalker, an ambulatory son of nanosecond bras. Sweetness came over me, washing income fruit capacity; escape prom demotion wigs atop elusive zebras. Catch all ye canoe, boatsman; whisk immortal rapids off to tender canyon dairy pies, swooping fallacies, aplomb a furtive crane.

Semblance of a howitzer, swing set swoon has all an aneurism could’ve axed a forlorn looping masquerade of pineal pyre and antelope yore for which for many foreground tattoos. Serried occasions plop through the tough-guy frontier commodity of sworn necropsy, agoraphobia, and wise guy grunting eulogy for funk, oil, and clockwork call-girl aptitude (what be tested for and inculcated by gradient scrolls in all the finest laudatory yet barely audible crumples of stilted lingua Franceska; oh to see her just once again but they tell me she’s long gone and so am I; perhaps the images were all illusions and can never oh no too terrible but maybe yes of course it’s clear as well as any clarity can be or can it, too, defy existence?).

Falling into word horde, emerging invisible as only an existential kumquat can, cameras do the next best imaginary fling, capturing the mold, a melded adipose indemnity, velocity in merged illumination, bunting rippling over transom of a bakery in afternoon’s wheezing taxi line chronometer, plastic haze of dated pages, paucity in newly printed cringe, to state line chaser submarine.